


swerving on the 405.

by katarama



Series: drive. [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Collars, M/M, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Rimming, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott feels it slowly settling in, the feeling of being on the road, the tension he’s had coiled up so tightly it’s formed knots slowly starting to ease.  He’s giving Stiles a break, giving them both a a few weeks with no responsibility except not going prematurely broke or getting lost.  There are no expectations from anyone except a required call at the end of each day to their parents.</p><p>It’s terrifying and exhilarating.</p><p>(Scott and Stiles road trip fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	swerving on the 405.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/gifts).



> Alex and I had a long talk about Scott being collared and taken care of, and then I finally listening to Badlands. When I started getting feelings about Drive, I decided this fic needed to happen. Have some Skittles road trip, praise!kink, collaring fic.
> 
> Just a note: I am keeping this mostly canon-compliant leading up to season 5. In canon, Stalia and Scira are together. I’m not splitting them up. One thing I’ve noticed about fandom with regards to polyamorous ships is that there seems to be a perception that everything needs to be inclusive triads and quads, and that isn’t true. There are lots of healthy ways to do polyamory, and if you have any questions about it, feel free to ask.

Stiles could never handle stillness.

It was true when Scott met him, when they were kids and Stiles refused to go back inside after recess because he didn’t want to sit in his desk for hours. It was true when Stiles dragged Scott headfirst into skateboarding because it was a chance to go burn off steam and get out of the house. It was true when Stiles got ahold of a police scanner and started sneaking into Scott’s house late at night to tell him with bright eyes about the cases his dad was investigating, when he started tugging Scott along to investigate for themselves, getting caught by the sheriff every single time.

Now that Scott is a werewolf, things have only gotten worse. For all Stiles loves Beacon Hills, he’s never been suited for the small town life. Stiles is all buzz and brightness and vibrance in a way that isn’t always positive. He’s in need of constant stimulation, but he’s also always brimming with nervous energy and anxiety and spikes of panic.

He’s had constant stimulation, the last year or so; they’ve been constantly under threat, always running and fighting and planning and worrying and struggling to maintain any sort of balance in their lives. Stiles has gotten used to it, though he doesn’t _enjoy_ it. He could deal with fewer bruises and cuts, fewer moments questioning if they’re going to walk out with their lives. Fewer moments where he watched his best friend stepping away, taking too much responsibility for himself, trying to save everyone at the expense of his happiness. Fewer moments with his heart in his throat, terrified and sick, the sharp, overwhelming smell of gasoline making his head ache, and only stepping closer, reaching out his hand to hold the flare that Scott was clinging to.

Long, sleepless nights turned into sleepless nights haunted by more, restless nights spent covered in sweat that wasn’t from tossing and turning, but from running, voices becoming real as they filled Stiles’ head, speaking in riddles and telling Stiles to let them in.

Stiles got used to constant movement, and then everything was forced to a halt, days with Stiles’ head filled with thoughts that were not his own, with words leaving his mouth that he didn’t put there. Days when he was left with nothing but the way his body was taking in pain and suffering. The thing inside his head was so perfectly in control; he’d never felt so still, and it was heady and dizzying. He was high on it until the moment when he felt his hand plunge a sword into the boy he’d give his life to save, until he drank in every bit of the pain, knowing that he was the one who caused it.

Now, the nogitsune’s gone. Stiles has had things to apply himself to, working on school stuff, teaching Malia to adjust to normal human life and figuring out their relationship. Saving the supernatural creatures of Beacon Hills. But now it’s summer and the benefactor is gone and his life is not being directly threatened. None of theirs are; they’ve had time to breathe, time to piece themselves together.

Stiles can already feel his skin start to itch. He can’t handle stillness anymore.

* * *

 

Scott can see that Stiles has been needing to _go_ for a while now. He can see it in the set of his shoulders, the constant tap tap tapping of his fingers, the constant hypervigilance. He can’t say he knows the feeling. He spent the first week or two of summer being on edge, unsure of when the next threat would pop up, but things have settled down for him.

Since, he’s been trying to take advantage of the time they have free, working with Deaton to save up some money and spending time with Kira and actually getting full nights of sleep. He hadn’t realized how much he missed sleep until he got it back, and now he doesn’t know how he’s going to part with it when the school year starts back up again. He spends time with his mom and with the pack, practicing lacrosse with Liam and watching movies with Lydia and looking into college stuff with Stiles, relishing in the fact that everything is quiet for the first time in a year.

He gets a lot of worried glances that he can’t really explain. He’s doing fine, really. At least, he says he is, and he’s working on believing it. He’s got his friends, and he came out of junior year with respectable grades. He worked hard and he did well on the PSAT, and if he can do just as well on the SAT, he can get into UC Davis and go there with Stiles, like they planned. No one’s dying. Stiles says the police scanner has been quiet, even for a normal summer in Beacon Hills.

But Stiles isn’t okay, Scott can feel it in his bones. Stiles hadn’t had much time to process things, and he’s on his way to coping, but he’s still not there, still wrapped in guilt and hurt. He still smells sour with anxiety when Scott leaves him to sleep alone in his bed, reason 3 on Scott’s mental list of reasons why Malia Tate is one of the best things to ever happen to Stiles. She’s unashamed of physical (and sexual) contact, of needing touch and of giving touch when it’s needed of her. It makes Stiles look better and smell better.

It still isn’t enough to totally soothe Stiles’ frayed nerves. This time off means that Stiles has time to think, which has always been dangerous. Now that there’s so much darkness and pain that is right there on the surface, easy for Stiles to access, Scott can’t let him just sit there and stew in it.

Stiles must have had the same thought, because, out of nowhere, Stiles is frantic motion and stealing knowing glances with Malia and dragging Kira to the side to have secret, mumbled conversations just far enough away that Scott can’t overhear. Kira looks deadly serious and Stiles looks nervous, and Scott is worried. Stiles is up to something, something that everyone around him seems to know but that Stiles has been meticulously keeping from him.

Scott is terrified, actually, because Stiles only manages to keep secrets from him when things are either inconsequential or when they’re extremely serious. From the way Kira’s sending him concerned glances and biting at her lip and looking at him like he’s a ticking time bomb when they’re on dates, Scott suspects Stiles’ secret is more of the second.

He bides his time and waits. Stiles will have to tell him eventually, and they can deal with whatever this is together.

* * *

 

When Stiles finally lets things out, Scott feels ridiculous.

Stiles wants to go on a road trip. He comes with an actual, paper road map, huge enough to take up half of Scott’s bed. There are ten cities starred, including Beacon Hills, an odd mix of big cities and cities that Stiles picked because they were ‘on the way, see how they fit in with our route, and there’s enough to see there that it’s not a waste of time’.

Scott wants to tell Stiles no, that he needs to stay behind in Beacon Hills, that there’s too much going on for him to pack up and leave for a few weeks. But there isn’t actually that much going on in Beacon Hills right now, and he can see that as much as there’s excitement written on Stiles’ face as he talks about how he may have picked some of the places because they have their own unique style of pizza, there’s also something deeper, something heavier. Scott knows that Stiles _needs_ this, needs to get out of Beacon Hills, needs the physical break from this place.

It’s hard to disagree, with that in mind, especially when Stiles singlehandedly dismantles his biggest argument by saying that he’d annoyed Braeden until he’d gotten a definite yes that she and Derek would stick around until Scott and Stiles were back.

“Pack your stuff, then,” Stiles tells him. “We’re leaving in a few days. I’ve cleared it with your mom. She gave me an emergency inhaler and everything. Kira okayed it, too, and Malia was totally on board, mostly because she says that it’s hard to sleep next to me when I smell so gross with anxiety, but…”

“Okay,” Scott says.

He hasn’t been out of Beacon Hills in a long time, and he can’t deny the fact that it makes him nervous leaving. He’s rooted to life there, to the nemeton, to the high school, to the hospital, now more than ever. To the cemetery just outside of town

It’s been months since Allison died, but he still thinks about her every day when he sees the thick black lines of his tattoo. It was once a promise to himself, a reward for keeping his distance, for respecting her boundaries. It’s now more, the lines of a target, the rings of the tree where they first let themselves die and be born again with darkness in their hearts.

He doesn’t need the visual reminder. He can feel it when it creeps in. He’s carrying darkness in his heart, and the pain of losing Allison next to it. The tattoo is a daily reminder of how he’s grown in all the wrong ways, and what once felt like strength now feels like a burden.

Maybe he needs to get out of the town for a while just as much as Stiles, after all.

* * *

 

The days leading up to the trip are a whirlwind, a rush of Stiles getting the jeep ready to take on a long trip and of Scott’s mom giving him frantic advice but telling him to just have fun. Trying to figure out how much stuff he and Stiles can comfortably bring with them on the road takes a good day and a half. Scott and Stiles throw half of Scott’s belongings into a suitcase and then have to take stuff out.

Stiles doesn’t let Scott help him pack. He says it’s something he needs to do alone, which seems suspicious to Scott. Stiles doesn’t budge, though, so Scott goes back to figuring out which shirts are least likely to show dirt quickly.

Scott is glad he has money from working with Deaton, because he doesn’t know how else this trip could possibly work. As much as Stiles rambles about taking shifts sleeping in the car, he did look into places to stay in each of the cities, and he did book extremely cheap motels ahead of time. It’s more than Scott expected; as much as Stiles is a big ideas person, he’s really not great at the details part of planning. He gets sidetracked and distracted and leaves out something important and critical, every single time.

Scott is reassured when Lydia tells him that she helped Stiles, though less so when she informs him that some of the motels they’re staying at are reminiscent of the Motel Glen Capri. She says that Stiles mostly booked singles, so they’re going to have to share a bed. Scott accepts that for what it is - they’re on a budget, and Scott and Stiles have shared closer quarters than that before. Lydia hovers, though, watching for Scott’s reaction like she expects _something_ , some sort of adverse reaction. Scott doesn’t know what she’s waiting for; sure, Stiles has a lot of bad sleeping habits, he talks in his sleep and he’s a bed hog, but it’s not going to ruin Scott’s trip.

Everyone but Stiles seems to be a little bit weird, honestly. Malia keeps telling Scott to enjoy himself, like if she says it enough times, he’ll understand what secret meaning she’s giving it. Kira talked to Scott, too, after kissing, when they were laying in Scott’s bed.

“I’ll miss you,” Scott tells her. “I wouldn’t go if I didn’t think Stiles needed it.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” she says, smiling softly. “Take care of Stiles. And let him take care of you, too. Trust him.”

The words prickle in the back of Scott’s mind. It’s an odd thing for her to say, considering the fact that trusting Stiles comes as easy as breathing for Scott. He’s spent most of his life with Stiles, knows every flat look and every fidget, knows the way Stiles sounds when he’s edging around an important point and has spent enough time staring at Stiles’ mouth that he knows the difference between a nervous lip bite and a bored lip bite. Scott can’t think of a single thing that would make him stop trusting Stiles.

But Kira seemed sure that it was the right thing to say, and Scott is left wondering what he’s missing.

* * *

 

They hit the road before the sun goes up, after Stiles has forced himself to ingest enough coffee to survive being awake early enough to beat rush hour traffic. He’s planning on driving the first four or five hours straight through before finding a rest stop to pee and switching off to let Scott drive.

Scott knows that is a real show of trust for Stiles, letting Scott drive his baby. Stiles literally sat him down and explained to him how to work with the jeep’s idiosyncrasies, told him exactly how long it should take for the engine to kick on and in what temperatures the windows will behave the way they’re supposed to. It was all stuff Scott already knew, almost as instinctively as Stiles. He remembers winters spent driving to school with the window cracked, teeth chattering, praying he didn’t have an asthma attack from the cold, sharp air. He knows the sound of the engine whirring on, can hear the uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat that means it’s been too long, that if he tries again and it doesn’t roar to life, he’ll have to drag out the duct tape again.

Scott knows the jeep, though he’s a bit relieved Stiles will be waiting until they’re out into the empty highways in the middle of nowhere to pass along driving responsibilities to Scott. The hugeness of the jeep will take some getting used to, and this early in the morning, Scott isn’t ready to figure that out. He’s starting out the trip with everything hazy and blurred, sleep in his eyes and exhaustion in his bones. Stiles has his coffee and his music with enough screaming to wake the dead. Scott has the maps and the google maps instructions just to be on the safe side, but Stiles has his phone’s GPS turned on loud, a mechanical voice guiding Scott and Stiles away from home and out into the world.

Stiles starts to talk, energized by coffee and the buzz of adventure, of starting something new. Scott lets it lull him slowly to sleep, eyes slipping closed as Stiles switches lanes on the highway.

* * *

 

Scott startles awake to the sound of screeching tires and cursing. His mouth is dry and sticky, sour with the taste of morning breath. He fumbles blindly for the glove compartment, groping for the tin of mints Stiles always keeps there, before he finally manages to lift his heavy eyelids.

“Time to wake up,” Stiles says as Scott blinks, eyes adjusting to the light. He has a crick in his neck already, which doesn’t bode well; Stiles plans on swapping out back and forth the entire way to Denver, which is about an 18-hour drive.

Scott checks the clock. 14-hour drive, now.

They’re in a rest stop parking lot, mountains in the distance but not much else. “Where are we?”

“Mill City, Nevada,” Stiles announces proudly, glancing at the GPS. “We’re on 80, but that probably doesn’t mean much to you, since we’re on 80 forever. All you need to know is that all that coffee I drank is hanging out in my bladder, so, seriously, wake up, if you wanna pee or grab something to eat, do it now. We’ll grab gas and hit the road again after.”

Scott groans but unbuckles his seatbelt. They find the bathroom in the giant rest stop, and although Stiles is eyeing the coffee menu, Scott moves him along. He wants Stiles to actually get some rest while it’s his turn; otherwise, not only will Stiles be exhausted when he’s driving, but Stiles will be awake when Scott’s driving, fidgeting and shifting around and making himself restless and uncomfortable. They pass up the breakfast snacks there, too, because Scott’s mom gave them some chocolate chip bagels for breakfasts while they travel. Stiles grabs two from the bag once they get back to the car and settle in, stuffing one in his mouth as he tosses the other to Scott, sloppily refastening the twisty tie.

It’s a known fact that Stiles can sleep literally anywhere, as long as he’s tired enough, the product of too many years dozing off in hospital chairs. It’s just a matter of him falling asleep in the first place, of finding the balance of anxiety and exhaustion and excitement that lets his brain find the space to doze off.

They’re lucky, this time. Stiles holds out for an hour, snagging another bagel and scarfing it down, fussing his way through the first part of Scott’s road trip playlist. They’re passing the exit to Battle Mountain when Scott glances over and sees that Stiles has finally conked out, lips parted and head tipped down, the sound of his breathing slow and even.

Scott turns on the poppiest part of his playlist and refocuses on the road, lamenting the fact that the jeep doesn’t have functioning cruise control.

* * *

 

Being on the road involves a lot more thinking than Scott would like.

Even with Stiles snoring, loud and obnoxious as ever, and with Scott’s music playing, there’s too much empty space in the car for thinking. Even with the smattering of mountains and the steady flow of the river along the road, everything is open space, few people to keep Scott distracted or occupied. Driving only keeps Scott’s hands busy, leaving his mind to wander.

He still can’t believe they’re doing this. He feels it slowly settling in, the feeling of being on the road, the tension he’s had coiled up so tightly it’s formed knots slowly starting to ease. He’s giving Stiles a break, giving them both a a few weeks with no responsibility except not going prematurely broke or getting lost. There are no expectations from anyone except a required call at the end of each day to their parents.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating, and he wishes Stiles was awake to feel it with him.

Not that they’ve ever been totally in sync when it comes to feelings, Scott knows. It’s not just that they feel things differently, Stiles loud and consuming and impossible to ignore and Scott much quieter and subtler. It’s that they never process things the same way, Stiles rushing to anger and annoyance and fear while Scott struggles towards rationalization and calm. It’s the reason they grew into each other, the precarious balancing act they maintain, two parts of a whole.

Scott knows they share one feeling, though. The bone-deep, settling kind of love that feels like too much, like it’s enough to fill him up.

Stiles just doesn’t feel it for Scott, not the way Scott does for him. It’s the one thing they never talk about, this Thing between them that goes unacknowledged. Scott is grateful. Stiles has Malia, and though he doesn’t say the words, the way he loves her is written all over his face. And Scott loves Kira, too, loves the shy, soft way she expresses herself, loves the brightness of her laugh and the way she fits comfortably under his arm.

Sometimes Scott feels like he should be out love, that his well should have run dry already. Allison is written on his heart, letters cutting small but quick, sudden and overwhelming in their sweetness, in the way every moment with her made him feel fluttery and important. Lasting, even now that she’s gone. There’s Kira scrawled in next to her, letters growing darker as they grow into each other, slow but sure, confident and comfortable.

But Stiles was the first name there, the big, sloppy letters that have been there so long they don’t look written anymore. They’re carved there, present in every beat of Scott’s overflowing heart.

The boy snoring in the seat next to him is his always, even if he’ll never be his everything.

* * *

 

Stiles wakes up and falls back to sleep when they’re driving into Utah, stirs and mumbles a few words about Isaac’s scarves and then dozes off again. Scott only shakes his head, letting him rest. He drives through the Bonneville Salt Flats, cranking up the music to cope with the fact that there’s nothing for miles.

As they approach Salt Lake City, though, Scott’s stomach starts to grumble, and he has to wake Stiles up to figure out where they should stop. Stiles’ body on his ADHD meds (which had been a requirement from Melissa, he had to take his meds if he would be driving) deals with exhaustion and stress by shutting down hunger for everything but one or two specific things that he’s craving, and Scott doesn’t want Stiles starting the trip off not eating.

Stiles is disoriented but compliant once he realizes that there’s the promise of food. Stiles insists on a place with curly fries and milk, which Scott suspects is going to be a common theme. There’s an exit that has signage saying there’s an Arby’s and a gas station, so Scott turns off. They can deal with traffic going through Salt Lake City after they have food in their bellies and a full tank of gas.

They go inside for their late lunch, just to make sure they both have time to stretch their legs and use the restroom. Stiles inhales his food and waits, watching Scott finish his food in a way that would be disconcerting if it weren’t for the fact that Scott is used to it, after years of lunches with just Stiles for company.

“Will you be good for driving tonight?” Scott asks Stiles.

“Yeah, dude,” Stiles says. “I feel so ready for this. You’re gonna be starting out when it’s dark, though. I’m planning on driving all the way through to Cheyenne, and you can take it the rest of the day down to Denver.”

“That’s only like… an hour and a half, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “We should get there late, but I booked the room in the motel starting tonight, and there’s 24-hour check-in. You get an hour and a half tonight and you get to drive around in Denver for the first half of tomorrow.”

“You were trying to stick me with the all the city driving all along, weren’t you?” Scott says, and the enormous grin that splits across Stiles’ face tells him all he needs to know.

They talk and eat, and Scott can feel the weight that had been pressing down on him lift. This is him and Stiles, the same as they’ve always been, and that’s something he can handle.

There’s not much he can’t handle, with Stiles along for the ride.

* * *

 

Lydia wasn’t wrong about the first motel that Stiles booked. It’s worn down, though not nearly as remote as the Motel Glen Capris.

“It was cheap,” Stiles says defensively, “and Lydia didn’t get bad vibes when I showed her the pictures. Yelp said there weren’t bed bugs.”

“Well, that’s good enough for me,” Scott says, following Stiles in to check in. They get two keys for a room with one small bed.

While Scott has no qualms about ribbing Stiles about how small the bed is, but they’re both too tired and too grateful for a bed to complain. Scott strips without thinking, getting down to his boxers and tossing his clothes haphazardly into his suitcase. Stiles easily gets his khakis off, but he hesitates over his shirt.

“You’re gonna be hot, dude, and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Scott says, and Stiles only hesitates longer.

“Maybe I’m saving this,” Stiles says, gesturing to his top half, “for someone who would appreciate it.”

“I appreciate it,” Scott argues. “I appreciate it a lot.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Stiles is staring at Scott, eyes narrowed like he’s just said something more revelatory than he intended, but Scott isn’t going to stutter an apology or backtrack. Scott doesn’t understand how things went weird, why Stiles is acting like this. He has no reason to be nervous about his body with Scott, especially since Scott has seen him through his most awkward of awkward phases, when Stiles was too-big feet and hands and swimming trunks that wouldn’t stay up over his hips without him tying them as tight as they could go. He’s seen Stiles when he first decided to give himself a buzz cut, when he took the clippers to his head himself and everything was uneven and chopped, Stiles’ gappy grin bright and proud. Now, when Stiles is older, filling out and gaining muscle, it’s hard for Scott not to be attracted to him.

Stiles pauses a moment longer before he slips his shirt off and sits down on the bed. “Do you know why we’re here?”

“Because it’s cheap?” Scott asks. “Or in Denver? You said you wanted to see the mountains and didn’t mind nosebleeds.”

Stiles doesn’t even give Scott a flat look, which is how Scott knows that this is important, after all. “No. On this trip.”

Scott sits down on the bed next to Stiles. “Because it’s too quiet?” he guesses.

“Partly,” Stiles says. “But we’ve had quiet summers before. Last summer was a quiet summer.”

“The nogitsune?”

Stiles considers that. “No. Not that either, exactly.”

“Then what’s it about?” Scott asks.

“Sort of the nogitsune,” Stiles says, picking at the loose thread of the motel comforter with his bitten nails. “I figured that would be a good excuse to get you on the road, at least. I can tell you worry about it. The others don’t. Or, well, not as much as you, at least. You’re constantly looking at me like I’m haunted, and at first I thought it was that you thought I was gonna start running around stabbing people with swords again. Like you couldn’t believe it was gone. But it is, and that’s not what you were doing. You were worrying about me. Like you do about everyone, all the time. Literally everyone, even assholes like Isaac or Jackson, and you just… can’t stop.”

Scott has no idea where this is going, and he’s pretty sure that what Stiles just said isn’t any more of a reason why they’re there than Scott’s first few statements. Stiles is staring at him, though, totally stilled, his warm eyes fixed on Scott’s, like he can convey everything he’s struggling to get out just by staring intensely. There are times when it would work, times when Stiles could send Scott a glance and Scott would _know_ , when Scott would understand without words what Stiles was trying to say.

This is just one part of the way this whole trip has felt, though. Scott thought he understood what was going on, thought that this was just a mental break. A chance for both of them to breathe. But now that he’s confronted with the question of why they’re there, he’s thinking about it, and there’s so much that he can’t explain. The girls’ weirdness before leaving - Stiles’ weirdness before leaving, even. None of it makes sense. And now they’re sitting in a motel room in the Denver on a tiny bed, shoulders so close they knock against each other, thoughts from the road fresh in Scott’s head, Stiles telling him that he can’t stop worrying like it’s a bad thing.

“I don’t understand,” Scott finally admits, and Stiles reaches over to grip his hands firmly.

“You spend all your time taking care of other people,” Stiles says. “As an alpha, as a friend. As the person you are. You waste all your energy trying to fix other people and make them better and you don’t do fuck-all for yourself. You don’t think about yourself, like, ever, and it scares the shit out of me. You’re carrying the world on your shoulders, and I’m not gonna be the best friend who sits there and lets everything fall to shit because I wasn’t doing everything to make sure you have what you need.”

It’s Scott’s first instinct to stop Stiles, to tell him that he’s wrong. Scott does plenty of taking care of himself; he makes sure he has at least a few hours per week set aside for time with his mom, and at least twenty minutes every day of just him and Kira time. He eats healthy even when his mom isn’t home, and he’s staying in shape for when lacrosse season rolls back around. But as soon as he opens his mouth to argue, Stiles settles a hand on his thigh.

“I remember the last time we were in a motel like this,” Stiles says, words slow and heavy. “I remember standing outside in a parking lot and watching you, the only person I’ve ever met who had so much faith in me, so much faith in anyone, doused in gasoline, holding a torch, telling me there was no hope. Telling me that maybe he should be no one, because people were getting killed. I know it was the wolfsbane making you act that way, the same as with Boyd and the safe. But I’m not convinced you don’t still believe it sometimes. That someone else could do better than you, that _anyone_ else could be better for your pack. You’re not nice to yourself the way you’re nice to others, and no one takes care of you the way you take care of them.”

“Stiles, I’m fi-”

“No,” Stiles says. “You’re not fine. I know… back when Allison was around, you two used to do stuff together, right? Stuff that made things better for you.”

“She was my anchor,” Scott says. It’s something that Stiles should remember as well as Scott, since he was the one who figured it out. Scott can still picture the way it felt, painfully clearly, the way it was easy reaching down and letting her calm him, the way even a quick, reassuring squeeze of her hand or a bright, dimpled smile was enough to soothe the new, intense feelings that made him spiral out of control. He could bury himself in the way she loved him, in the way she could take charge when he needed, let him pause to slow down when everything around him was forcing him to a sprint.

“She was,” Stiles agrees. “That wasn’t what I was talking about, though.”

He gets up from the bed, leaving Scott’s shoulder and thigh cold from the absence of warm, constant contact. Stiles unzips his bag and fishes around for a minute before finally coming back up. There’s a familiar silver necklace clutched in his fist, the Argent seal etched on the pendant. Scott’s heart stops. He knows that necklace, on an intimate level. When Allison learned what the necklace meant, learned more about the woman who wore it before her, its meaning changed and soured. But it meant something different, found a new life around his neck, the long, thin chain dangling down and resting next to his heart as Allison ran her fingers down his back, through his hair. He’s carried it in his pocket, wrapped around his fingers when he needed a boost of courage, a reminder of who he was and whose he was.

“She told you.” Scott’s heart is in his throat, thinking about Allison sitting down with Stiles, handing him the necklace and talking about the things they did in the privacy of their bedroom. It feels like a betrayal of trust.

“She did,” Stiles says seriously. “Just me. No one else knows, and I didn’t tell anyone. She thought you had already told me about it, and then she was talking, and I didn’t understand any of it, so she backtracked. She wanted someone to help you be good to yourself. I just wasn’t the right person for it until now.”

“And you’re the right person now?” Scott asks.

“I want to help,” Stiles says. “After the nogitsune, I know that this would be good for me. But I mostly want to make you feel good. I want to take some of the pressure off you. You put enough of it on yourself, and I want to make things easier for you, even if it’s just for a couple of hours. That’s why we’re here. Not just because I was bored. We’re here because I wanted to be somewhere away from normal life to try something new that could be good for you. For both of us.”

“I’d let you,” Scott admits. “I trust you. I’d…” The words stick in his throat, because they _mean_ something to him, and he hasn’t used them in a long time. Has tried not to think about them in a long time, trying to put some emotional distance between himself and how things used to be. The summer after he broke up with Allison, things were brutal, trying to adjust back to being on his own while also losing something that steadied him, kept him solid and whole. He doesn’t have that luxury, now. He can’t take that kind of time off if everything goes south. He can’t afford to break down because it’s something he doesn’t have.

But if Stiles is offering this - seriously offering this - then Scott doesn’t know how he can say no. He trusts Stiles with everything, and if he loses Stiles, he wouldn’t be able to function, no matter what, regardless of whether he had this from someone else or not. No one knows him better than Stiles, and while he worries about Stiles’ focus when Stiles is trying to complete assignments for economics, he doesn’t doubt Stiles’ laser focus when it comes to him. Stiles could give him what he needs, let his brain slow and his body relax.

“I’d let you collar me,” he finally says, and a huge, hopeful grin bursts across Stiles’ face.

* * *

 

Scott wakes up before Stiles the next morning to text Kira. It’s early, but she’s up, and she responds almost immediately telling him to call.

“Is this what you meant when you told me to trust him?” Scott asks quietly from the bathroom, trying to keep his voice down. He doesn’t want to wake Stiles up, partly because Stiles is a pain in the morning, and partly because he needs to have this conversation with Kira uninterrupted.

“Yeah,” she tells him, her voice sweet and soothing. The fact that she doesn’t even need to ask what he means is like a balm on Scott’s nerves, reassuring him that this is something that Stiles really has thought through, something he’s taken all the necessary steps on. “He talked to me. I’m okay with everything he wants, as long as it’s what you want, too. I know you love him.”

Hearing it coming from Kira’s mouth is a weird feeling, but it’s a moment when Scott can’t help but love her from the pit of his gut. She seems so calm and unflustered, secure in the knowledge of what Stiles is to Scott. Scott can’t help but need to reassure her, though, a quiet, “You know I love you, too, right? I love us.”

  
“I know,” she says. “Stiles talked to me a lot about that, too. It would be harder for me if it were anyone but Stiles. You and Stiles…”

“Yeah,” Scott replies. He knows exactly what she means without having to ask her to put it to words. “Okay. I just… needed to check. Before I did anything. I agreed to let him collar me last night, but I didn’t want to go forward with anything until I was sure you were okay with it.”

“You can do anything with Stiles, and I won’t be upset. Just make sure you send me lots of texts that I’m beautiful and wonderful, and we’re all good,” she teases.

Scott laughs. “I can do that. It’s true, anyway. You’re incredible.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kira says. “Tell Stiles hello from me. Go have fun.”

* * *

 

Scott doesn’t remember a lot of what they do in Denver.

He remembers the mountains, purple and blue from distance and smog, the way they made him feel closed in, like the earth was pressing in around them. He remembers ditching their car in a parking garage for a ridiculous amount of money early on their first day and just walking. He remembers not minding the way his muscles ached, because Stiles stared out into the city with bright eyes, small next to the towering skyscrapers, and it made Scott’s stomach swoop. He remembers running his and Stiles’ conversation through his head again and again, questioning himself, but never Stiles.

They don’t do anything but sleep at night, but Scott can’t help but be aware of the way Stiles touches him where they’re pressed together. He feels like he’s on the edge, biding his time until Stiles decides to do something. The night before they leave for the next city, he’s restless and impatient, nervous and eager all at once, and sleeping’s almost impossible. Scott tosses and turns, trying to get comfortable but only getting more frustrated, until Stiles finally stirs awake.

“Sleep,” he says blearily. “You drive first tomorrow.” He reaches a hand up and runs his fingers through Scott’s hair, heavy handed and clumsy. Scott’s body still relaxes. He takes a deep, slow breath and settles into the feeling of Stiles’ hand gently tugging his hair.

“ _Oh_ ,” Stiles says, hand stilling. Scott glances up at him to see that his eyes are wide open, all traces of sleepiness gone. Scott’s embarrassed for a moment, but he lets it fade as Stiles’ hand starts to move again.

“Sleep,” Stiles repeats gently, and Scott closes his eyes and lets his mind drift.

* * *

 

As soon as they get to St. Louis, Scott makes a beeline for the shower. Stiles uses up all the hot water when he goes first, and Scott needs to wash the road off his skin. He leaves Stiles on their bed and spends twenty minutes soaking in the warm water, still bone tired, but feeling a little bit more like a human being.

When he finally talks himself into getting out of the shower and drying off, Stiles is on the phone with his dad, Stiles’ words clearly audible to Scott through the door.

“Kansas is the _worst_ ,” Stiles says. “Seriously, it’s the flattest, and there’s literally nothing there, it’s just tall grass and farms. Scott slept better there, though, at least. He couldn’t sleep in Colorado at all, it was weird.”

Scott wishes he could hear what Stiles’ dad said, but it’s too far, through the door. Stiles is quiet for a moment before he loudly, exasperatedly sighs. “I’m being careful, Dad. We both are.”

There’s an even longer pause. “I promise,” Stiles finally says. “I’ve spent way too much time keeping him alive to let sleepy driving get him in the end.”

“I know. I’m looking out for him. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Night, Dad.”

Scott hears the thump of Stiles’ phone going onto the bed next to him and ventures outside the bathroom. Stiles glances up at him, smile tired but genuine. “Have fun eavesdropping?” he asks.

“Couldn’t hear your dad,” Scott admits. He goes to sit down on his side of the bed and finds a crinkled up piece of paper on his pillow. He unfolds it and smooths it out on the bedside table, glancing through. It’s a list of all the things Stiles wants to do while they’re there, and one thing stands out almost immediately to Scott.

“The City Museum?” Scott asks skeptically. “Stiles, you hate museums, you always want to rush through them and move on.”

“Scotty, this is no ordinary museum. It’s like a _giant playground_ , I spent _hours_ looking up stuff about it.”

Scott accepts that and glances through the list again, snorting. “I didn’t know that St. Louis was known for their food. You have two pizza places, a frozen custard place, gooey butter cake, which isn’t even a place… is there anything you want to do here that isn’t food?”

“You,” Stiles casually, not missing a beat. Scott waits for the laugh, but it doesn’t come. Stiles reeks of nerves under the blanket of exhaustion and stale cheetos and spilled orange soda, and everything snaps into focus for Scott. This is what he had been waiting for, the moment he’d been thinking about since Stiles had taken out Allison’s necklace. “Unless, like,” Stiles rushes out, “I know that the sex stuff was separate for you and Allison, but I kind of want to have sex with you a lot, and I thought maybe it could be something we could do both ways? If that’s-”

“Yes,” Scott says, forcing Stiles to a halt. “I want to have sex with you.” He’s breathless with the thought of it, of having Stiles on top of him, Stiles’ fingers slicked up inside of him. It’s not a new thought, but he’s always thought of it as that last step, the one line that even he and Stiles couldn’t blur. “I just... have one thing, though.”

“What?”

“Can we not use the necklace?” Scott asks carefully. He’s been thinking about that most of all, how Allison’s Argent necklace would feel around his neck. Before, it meant something positive, a sign that she was there with him, even when her family kept them apart, a feeling deep down in his gut that he was hers. It would feel heavy and wrong to wear it now, just another reminder of her loss, of the way things are different.

Stiles takes a deep breath out and reaches down for his bag, and Scott doesn’t know what to expect this time. Last time, when he did that, it shifted everything, and Scott doesn’t know how many more surprises from Stiles he can handle.

When Stiles comes up holding a dark strip of leather with a silver buckle, Scott’s heart stops. He wants to reach out and touch, to feel the soft leather against his fingertips, around his neck. It’s hard to string words together that could convey the rush of emotions, longing and awe and gratitude and relief.

“I may have driven way out of Beacon Hills to find a sex shop that won’t recognize me as the sheriff’s son?” Stiles says hesitantly. “With a fake ID. I have no idea how to figure out if it’s the right size, but I thought… I mean, the color. Would look nice.”

“It’s perfect,” Scott breathes out. “Stiles, _thank you_ , it’s… can I…?”

“We should test the fit,” Stiles says, cheeks flushed. It’s reassuring to Scott that Stiles seems just as flustered, just as overwhelmed as he is. This is nothing either of them ever could have fully prepared for, nothing Scott could’ve dreamed up in even his wildest fantasies. Stiles’ hands are cold against his skin, but the leather’s warm as Stiles carefully wraps it around the back of his neck, tongue between his teeth. The edges are firmer, sturdier where it presses against him, even as he’s totally still. He feels glued to the spot by the heat and intensity of Stiles’ gaze, by the heavy calmness of Stiles looping the belt through the buckle, considering carefully before finally choosing a hole.

“There,” Stiles says, pulling away and looking at Scott. Scott feels warm and full of the knowledge that this moment could change everything between them, that this could be the moment when things become _more_. He’s pinned by the way the collar rests against his skin and even more by Stiles’ assessing gaze. He needs desperately for Stiles to see how it fits around his neck and to want it to stay there. He needs Stiles to want him like this, to want to take him apart and piece him back together, to give him the peace of mind he didn’t know he needed so desperately until now, thousands of miles from home with nothing but time to think.

“It’s perfect,” Stiles repeats back at Scott. “You’re perfect,” he says, and Scott is so happy he could cry.

Scott knows he’d never say this any other time. Stiles has a running tally in his head of the flaws of every person he’s close to, every person he loves. He always volunteers the bad with the good, like his only settings are harsh and objective. Scott’s used to it - it’s part of being Stiles’ friend, growing a bit of a thick skin and learning which jibes to take seriously.

But right now, with his collar sitting high on Scott’s neck, with Scott vulnerable and open, there for Stiles to tear to shreds if he wanted, Stiles gentles Scott down, giving him exactly what he needs.

That night, Scott’s head barely hits the pillow before he’s out.

* * *

 

Scott feels like Stiles definitely planned for the next leg of the trip to be a lot less focused on the destinations and a lot more focused on the two of them spending time in the motel together. Stiles has precisely two items written down on his list of things to do in Cleveland, Cedar Point and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. They’re connected by a bracket that says, “Pick one, they’re both expensive.”

“Why did you plan all these cities if you didn’t plan to do anything in them?” Scott asks Stiles, staring down at the sheet of paper. “You could’ve just planned a few cities, and we wouldn’t have to drive from place to place.”

“There are multiple versions of the lists for all the cities,” Stiles reassures him. “Just in case you took some time to adjust. These are the ones that make space for motel time.”

“St. Louis was still literally just food,” Scott points out.

“And I regret none of it,” Stiles says proudly. “You can’t tell me that gooey butter cake wasn’t the best decision we’ve made this trip so far.”

Scott snorts and runs a hand along his neck, looking up at Stiles through his eyelashes. “The trip’s not over yet, but I can already think of one better decision we’ve made so far, and some that could easily be even better.”

Stiles leans in close to Scott’s face, eyes closed and lips parted, and Scott prepares himself to press his lips against Stiles’. It feels sudden and rushed, with the way everything else has been building up, but he wants Stiles’ mouth touching his more than just about anything right now.

He’s stunned when, instead, Stiles takes the list from Scott’s hand and waves it in the air in front of his face.

“Don’t knock the list,” Stiles says, leaving Scott frustrated but begrudgingly amused.

* * *

 

“I take everything back. Kansas isn’t the worst.”

Scott laughs, but he can’t help but agree. They’re two thirds of the way through Illinois, slowly approaching Indiana, and Scott doesn’t think he’s seen this much corn or soy in his entire life. He didn’t even know there was a difference until Stiles told him. He just knew that driving through Illinois was miles and miles and miles of endless rows of green plants, spotted with the occasional silo and the occasional turn-off into a small town with a gas station, a motel, a diner, and a McDonalds.

That’s where they are right now, sitting with the engine killed and the windows rolled down in a McDonalds parking lot in Bumfuck, middle of nowhere Illinois. Stiles is sitting behind the wheel clinging to his box of chicken tenders for dear life. The air is hot and muggy, though not as bad as in St. Louis, where Scott could feel the air sticking to his clothes just walking around. It’s set to storm while they’re in Cleveland, and Scott wouldn’t be surprised if Stiles used it as an excuse to stay the entire time in the motel.

Not that Scott would mind that as much as he lets on. It would mean saving money on attractions. As well as they’ve been doing at budgeting so far, Scott isn’t confident in their ability to stretch their money out all the way, especially once they get to New York. They could easily order in food or stop at the grocery store; from their adventure in trying to find food in St. Louis, Scott and Stiles had a lesson in Midwestern supermarket chains.

Stiles jumps out of the car to throw away his carton, and Scott doesn’t really feel like getting out of the car. He’s already buckled up, ready to get back on the road so they can try to beat some of the congestion in the construction zones in Indiana. He calls Stiles around to his side of the car, reaching his hand out of the window to pass Stiles his trash.

“You’re not just gonna pass that off on me without a thank you, are you dude?” Stiles asks.

Scott goes to thank him out loud and then pauses, getting a better idea. He shifts in his seat, getting up on his knees and moving his upper half out of the window, tilting his head and leaning his face close, lips parted so Stiles can press up that last little bit, their lips aligning like they were meant to fit together. Stiles tastes like barbecue sauce and chicken, and Scott can feel the roughness of Stiles’ lips where they’re bitten and chapped. It’s nothing Scott would’ve imagined for their first kiss, not that what he imagined was very realistic. His head was full of images of them drunk and handsy in Stiles’ bed back in Beacon Hills or of ditties reminiscent of old black and white movies, Scott and Stiles saving the day and, overwhelmed with the adrenaline and the mutual attractiveness of their heroism, Stiles planting a stomach-swooping, heel-lifting kissing on him.

This is somehow better, the glass from the jeep’s window digging into his skin, Stiles clearly disgruntled and disoriented by not being the person higher up in this kissing situation. It’s real, awkward and unexpected and unplanned.

When Scott finally pulls away, Stiles is totally distracted, his lips pink and puffy and his eyes wide, like after everything, he still can’t believe this is something they can have. Scott understands the feeling; he’s still trying to come to grips with it himself.

“Does that work as a thank you?” Scott asks lightly, and Stiles startles back to life.

“You’re setting the bar too high too early on, Scott,” Stiles warns over his shoulder as he walks towards the trash can. “Better pace yourself, or I’ll start expecting this all the time.”

“I’m okay with that,” Scott says as Stiles climbs back in the car. “I’m okay with you expecting it for a long, long time.”

“Save your sap and feelings for at least the fifth city,” Stiles jokes, turning the key carefully and letting the engine roar to life. “We’ve got a schedule to keep to here.”

* * *

 

They don’t see much of Cleveland. They go to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and are disappointed by how little is there. Stiles says it wasn’t worth the admission, and that they would’ve been better of just going ahead and skipping that, too, but Scott laid down a ground rule that they have to see something in every city, and he’s going to be pretty firm about it, no matter how much Stiles tries to bribe him with kisses.

They spend the rest of the night sprawled out on the motel bed, kissing until their lips are raw and red, Scott’s hair so tousled that it looks like he never left his bed in the first place, his body boneless under Stiles. Now that they’ve broken that barrier, Stiles doesn’t want to do anything else, kissing Scott like he’s hungry for it, like he can make up for lost time by kissing Scott every way he knows how, fast and hard and messy and softer, gentle and slow and careful, like anything more will break the fragility of what they have. Scott can barely keep up, still overwhelmed by the fact that he can have this at all, his legs bracketed by Stiles’, his hands pressed against Stiles’ chest, the feeling of Stiles’ nipples tentatively pressed flat with his fingertips, making Stiles moan.

The storms hit as predicted early the next morning, so Scott and Stiles stay curled up in bed, shirtless and breathless, kissing under the covers. Scott feels lazy and warm, everything else melting into the background. When Scott’s belly starts grumbling too loudly to be ignored, Stiles groans, and Scott gives him a long, heavy look. He shoves the covers back, and Stiles curls up, expecting Scott to try and force him out of bed.

Instead, Scott rests his hands gently on Stiles’ chest, soothing him back into the bed. Scott carefully places his mouth on Stiles’ neck, licking one long stripe with his tongue before backing up and glancing at Stiles’ reaction.

Scott feels the weight of Stiles’ gaze, heavy and approving, and Stiles’ works his hand through Scott’s hair, encouraging. Scott gives him a flicker of a smile and is back to work, sucking bruises into Stiles’ neck that are too high to cover up, even with Stiles’ collared plaid he loves so much. The patter of rain against the window’s drowned out by the noises coming from Stiles’ mouth, unhindered by the way he’s biting his lip, ringing loud and clear in the room, like Stiles couldn’t help them if he tried. It’s enough to push Scott braver, leaving Stiles’ neck and working his way down Stiles’ chest, placing a slow trail of kisses down to Stiles’ happy trail, hesitating over the waistband of Stiles’ underwear.

“I’m so not gonna stop you there, dude,” Stiles says, scritching gently at Scott’s scalp. Scott wants to plant his face in Stiles’ hip and _melt_. He keeps his focus, lifting Stiles’ hips to slide his boxers down and off, placing them on the ground way more gently than Stiles would himself.

He gives himself a moment to take everything in, the way he can see Stiles’ flush all the way from the hollows of his cheeks to his chest, uneven blotches of red that distract Scott, make him want to put his mouth back and add his own color to the skin. He traces along with his hand before settling it at Stiles’ hip, just the faintest pressure when he zeroes in on Stiles’ flushed, pink cock.

Scott’s new to the feeling of a cock in his mouth, to the way it stretches his jaw open wide, the way he has to go slowly, even though he wants as much of it as he can take. He can feel the way his lips keep slipping from where they’re stretched around his teeth, and he can taste Stiles, bitter and salty in the back of his mouth. He struggles, at first, clinging to his memories of what he likes to try to figure out how to make this good for Stiles, trying to figure out how to take Stiles in his mouth and do something productive with his hand at the same time.

It feels strange and new, and it’s hard for Scott not to feel a bit ridiculous. It’s different than burying his face in Kira, the smell of her slick and the squeezing of her thighs when he makes her come again and again on his lips and teeth and tongue. Stiles is new in the only way he could be for Scott, after years of emotional and physical closeness, and the only guidance Scott has is the long, gentle, steadying fingers threaded loosely through Scott’s hair and the noises Stiles makes, a sharp intake of breath or a deep groan that Scott realizes means he’s doing something very, very right.

There’s nothing more satisfying than the moment when he starts to figure it out, manages to work himself into a rhythm that makes Stiles feel good. Stiles warns Scott and pulls out when it’s time to come, leaving Scott a bit disappointed. He doesn’t like the taste of come, but he wants to keep it in his mouth, to hold the taste on his tongue and know that he did that, that he made Stiles feel incredible.

Stiles tries to lazily wipe the come from Scott’s cheeks with his finger and rubs it in instead. Scott finds that he doesn’t mind so much, coming with Stiles’ hand around his dick and Stiles’ come on his face. His attention’s focused elsewhere, his breath catching in his throat with the way Stiles looks at him, every emotion written clearly on Stiles’ expressive face, pride and satisfaction and awe.

“Next time you should wear your collar,” Stiles says. Thoughts of someday working up to feeling Stiles’ dick down his throat while having Stiles’ collar around Scott’s neck are enough to make Scott feel tingly and fuzzy, and he readily agrees.

* * *

 

Stiles is mercurial on a day-to-day basis back in Beacon Hills, and it turns out that being on the road doesn’t change that at all. It’s still raining the next morning, and waking up at 6 AM to gray skies puts Stiles in a crabby mood from the start. They argue about who’s going to drive; Scott ends up winning out, because Stiles refuses to go any more slowly than 15 miles per hour over the speed limit, and the rain is pouring so hard that even Scott, going 15 under, struggles to see what’s in front of him. It leaves Stiles sullen and brooding, the car uncomfortably silent, and when Scott accidentally takes a wrong exit off the highway, Scott can feel Stiles’ annoyance build. They pull off at the next small town exit to let the GPS figure out what’s going on and to regroup.

They figure out where they need to go to get back on highway 90, but because the law of things is that everything bad seems to clump up, in the parking lot of a Walmart in the pouring rain, the jeep’s ignition just makes angry whirring noises when Scott turns the key, refusing to start.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, as emphatically as he can manage. “You’re not doing it right,” he insists, glaring at Scott and reaching over to take the key out and try for himself. He turns the key, counts the beats out loud, and stops when the car only stalls.

Scott sits silent as Stiles curses again, wrenching open the glove compartment and digging for his duct tape. He grabs a flashlight, but not the umbrella next to it, storming outside, duct tape in hand.

Scott pops the front for Stiles and lets him grapple with what’s going on, knowing that Stiles wouldn’t let Scott touch the insides of his precious jeep on a good day, let alone a day when he’s on the warpath. Stiles rips duct tape with his teeth and places it, telling Scott to try the engine again, but the same thing happens as before.

Scott sits in the car waiting until the cursing grows louder, Stiles’ hair soaked flat against his forehead. It’s then that he finally gets out to see Stiles standing hopeless in front of the jeep, glaring at his duct tape like it’s failed him.

Scott reaches for Stiles’ hand. “Are you okay?” Scott asks gently, and while it may have made Stiles lash out earlier, now it’s the wrong question to ask for a different reason. His shoulders slump.

“I can’t do anything right,” Stiles says. “I can’t give good directions, I can’t even keep my fucking car going.”

“That’s not true,” Scott says. “You’re good at handjobs,” he tries, an attempt to lighten the mood that falls flat. Stiles only glares at the jeep, balling his hand into a fist and bringing it down hard. He does it again, and Scott winces, reaching out to grab Stiles’ hand, linking his fingers with Stiles before he hurts himself.

“Hey,” he says. “You did this right. You gave us both a break. I wouldn’t have let myself have this break, and I needed it. You’ve been doing a good thing taking care of me, too. I haven’t let someone do that for me in a while, and you came here and offered it up, and it makes me feel good.”

“Only a matter of time before I screw that up, too, right?” Stiles says bitterly, and Scott squeezes his hand tight, letting some of the pain seep from Stiles’ body into Scott’s. Stiles sees the black lines running up Scott’s arm and tries to jerk his hand away, but Scott holds firm.

“I love you,” he tells Stiles seriously. “You’re not perfect, but neither am I. You’re trying, even though most days you’d rather act like you aren’t. We’re both trying, and between the two of us, we’re gonna figure this out.”

Stiles is quiet for a long moment, the rain falling down on them. It’s chilly, a reprieve from the heat and humidity of the trip so far, but Scott knows that if his clothes get any more soaked through, he’s not going to appreciate it. He should’ve grabbed the umbrella on the way out of the car; the hood covers up the car’s insides and keeps the rain off, but Scott doubts that this is really good for it, either way.

“I guess that’s proof I’m doing good with this,” Stiles says finally. “A week or two ago, I could’ve asked you that, and I don’t know that I could’ve predicted you’d be so willfully optimistic.”

“I have faith in you,” Scott says steadily. “I’ve always had faith in you, even when I haven’t been sure of anything else.”

Stiles’ face presses close, still upset but more settled, at least. His hand squeezes tight, and the tension Scott was holding eases. “I love you, too,” Stiles says, then pauses. “I’m gonna kiss you now. In the rain. It’s gonna be romantic and cheesy and we’re not gonna talk about it.”

Scott laughs, knowing that they’re absolutely going to talk about it, that it will be recounted to everyone until they’re sick of hearing it, though the details might be fudged. Scott leans in and kisses him before Stiles can talk himself out of it. It’s cold and wet, droplets of water rolling down around Scott’s eyes and the drenched tips of Stiles’ hair brushing against Scott’s face.

“Let’s take a look at this jeep now,” Scott says when they break apart. “With less hitting, this time.”

* * *

 

They get the jeep back on the road. The weather doesn’t clear up until Albany, and the drive is still quiet, but Stiles takes a nap and seems more agreeable when he wakes up. When Scott turns the music up loud, Stiles sings, too, loud and out of key. It makes Scott smile, so Stiles keeps it up, the two of them zooming along the interstate with the windows rolled down to dry the jeep out, belting along to the music they listened to when they were kids. Scott feels like it’s the most stereotypical road trip feeling so far, but it doesn’t stop it from being good, exhilarating stress relief after the morning they had.

The motel in Boston is the tiniest they’ve stayed in so far; being back on the a coast means higher prices, and Stiles wasn’t willing to shell out more. He tells Scott that the one in New York is equally small, and probably a lot sketchier, but Scott figures they can handle it. He anticipates some quality time alone, and has to admit he’s a little bit disappointed when he realizes that being in Boston means they’re back on the tourist track for a bit. They get Charlie Tickets and run around, visiting the Boston Commons and the Public Gardens and Newbury Street. The next day they get just a piece of the way through the Freedom Trail before Stiles realizes that all it is is a combination of walking and history, and that he’s had too much of both already. They take a detour to get cannolis at Mike’s Pastry and hop on the green line to catch the red line into Cambridge. They get off at the Kendall/MIT stop and walk around, snapping pictures for Lydia, even though they have no idea which building is what, or even if any of them are actually part of the campus. Stiles is more interested in the bridge measured in smoots than the school itself, but he knows MIT is on Lydia’s List, and she’ll appreciate it.

New York is only a roughly four-hour drive, the shortest by far, and it makes a huge difference. They check out later in the day, meaning that when they arrive in New York, Stiles is practically zipping full of energy.

Scott didn’t know what to expect from New York, but what he gets definitely isn’t it. They’re in the touristy part of New York, he knows, and everything’s crowded and busy. It’s easy to get swept away in it, walking around, swallowed by the people and the buildings and the atmosphere. It’s overwhelming at first, but Stiles charges forward, leading Scott along, navigating the intersections confidently, like he actually knows where he’s going. Scott knows he has no idea; they have to double back more than a handful of times, and there are several times when, if it weren’t for the fact that the most popular places for tourists have helpful signage, they would have ended up hopelessly lost.

The big city just isn’t for Scott, he decides. They’re there for three days and they never stop moving, because there’s so much to see and, despite his complaints in some of the other cities about how much they were walking and going nowhere, here Stiles wants to walk everywhere and see everything. Scott can admit that it’s exciting being able to just go, but it’s exhausting for him in a way he didn’t expect. It’s too many scents and too many sounds, too much movement, and it sets him on edge.

He clings to his nights with Stiles to ground him, wondering when his definition of home became so flexible that even thousands of miles from his house with his mom, he feels safe and whole and calm. They’re too exhausted to do anything in New York but call their parents, strip, and collapse into bed, but having his face buried in crook of Stiles’ neck, smelling the now-familiar tang of excitement and anxiety and the travel size shampoo they’ve been sharing, is all Scott needs.

They’re on the way to Nashville when Scott realizes what the feeling really is. Stiles has always been there in his life; that’s nothing new. And it isn’t just the stress of the trip bringing them closer together. It goes deeper than that, touching a place in Scott that he never intended.

Somewhere between Beacon Hills and I-81 headed south, Stiles has become Scott’s anchor.

* * *

 

Scott knows nothing about Nashville aside from that it’s the capital of Tennessee and that there’s a country music scene there. When he asks Stiles, Stiles admits that that’s about all he knows, too, and that he picked Nashville more for its location than anything else.

“Can I see the list for this place?” Scott asks, and Stiles hands it over, not even a little bit ashamed. He should be. The only thing written on the paper is ‘SEX’, underlined twice.

“You didn’t even have a backup plan here, did you?” Scott asks, and Stiles grins. “Not one little bit,” he says proudly. “I was pretty confident in my wooing skills, and Kira was pretty confident in the amount you wanted to bang me.”

“I still don’t know why you planned in cities you didn’t want to do anything in. You’re ridiculous,” Scott says fondly, but he’s not really upset. After the last five or six days being so hectic, he could use a little bit of a break.

“I know,” Stiles says, grinning. “You love me, anyway.”

He’s right, so Scott drops it, placing a kiss on Stiles’ cheek.

* * *

 

Scott knows that if he looks back at this trip years from now, he’s going to remember Nashville as his favorite, even though they barely left their room. Scott hates to admit it, but that’s why it’s his favorite. It’s two days blurring together _scottandstiles_ , the press of his mouth against Stiles’, both of them growing in uneven, patchy facial hair they’re too lazy to shave off. It’s the feeling of fingers that aren’t his inside him, stretching him open, of being covered in sweat and lube and come, feeling messy and sticky but sated. It’s squeezing two people in a shower only big enough for one, Stiles trying ineffectively to wash Scott’s hair, elbowing the wall of the shower and cursing loudly over the pitter patter of the water from the shower head with the worst water pressure Scott has ever experienced. They give up, Stiles kicking Scott out to claim first shower, Scott’s hair still soapy with shampoo.

It’s Scott’s collar coming back out from its special pocket in Stiles’ suitcase, Scott wearing it proudly around his neck, letting his thoughts go hazy. It’s the first time Scott has let himself feel this way since Allison, the first time he’s really let himself float, his body going tingly at the softest commands from Stiles, the gentlest touches. Scott feels cherished and owned, and it’s settling to his very core, almost overwhelming at times. Nashville feels _good_ , the kind of relaxed Scott never let himself feel back home, where there’s too much responsibility, too much pressure from everyone else and from himself. Stiles takes that weight off him, lets him get away from being an alpha, lets him get away from running a pack, from protecting his home. From the weight of his failures and losses. Stiles fills up Scott’s brain with other things, so much that it pushes out the negativity and lets Scott breathe.

Scott knows he’ll never forget the night before they leave Nashville. He and Stiles take the collar off for them to eat and for Scott to clear his head enough to call his mom. Most of their things are repacked into suitcases so they can stuff it in the back of the jeep and start the drive down to New Orleans bright and early. Stiles has put away the lube and the condoms, which Scott finds suspicious, because his collar’s still sitting on the nightstand.

Stiles fastens it back around his neck, and they sit there for a while, Stiles talking and carding his fingers through Scott’s hair. Scott starts to lull himself into thinking that’s all they’re doing, ending the night nice and easy, but he realizes he’s wrong when Stiles presses him slowly back against the bed. Stiles gets on all fours, sprawling around Scott, bracketing him down into the bed.

“I love you,” Stiles whispers. He leans in and kisses Scott, a brief, light kiss that has Scott pressing up, seeking more. Stiles shushes him, gently guiding Scott back down to the bed. “Let me take care of you,” Stiles tells Scott. He nods, letting himself sink heavy into the mattress. Stiles smiles and kisses him again. “You’re perfect like this,” he tells Scott, his fingers drifting from Scott’s shoulder to his neck, brushing his fingertips along the skin right below Scott’s collar. It sends shivers down Scott’s spine. “You told me it’s good for you, but I never told you how good this is for me.”

Scott licks his lips, his voice feeling small when he asks, “It is?”

“You go soft and relaxed,” Stiles says, “you’re still trying. Youre always trying, because that’s who you are. But you let me take the load off, take charge. You don’t have to be the alpha, you just have to be mine.”

Scott feels too full, like his heart could burst from hearing how pleased, how proud Stiles sounds to call him his. Stiles notices.

“Your collar looks so good on you, better than I could’ve imagined,” Stiles says, his fingers pausing, lingering on the collar, the motion pressing the leather closer against Scott’s skin. “I’ve been thinking about it since I bought it, how that dark brown would look against your skin, how you’d look just like this. Loose. Happy. You love this, don’t you?” he asks gently. “Hearing that you’re mine. _My_ gorgeous boy, wearing my collar.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, letting Stiles’ words carry him deeper. He has nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to be embarrassed by. He does love how it feels, loves when Stiles reminds him what it means.

“All of you is mine, right now,” Stiles continues. He lifts his fingers from Scott’s neck and replaces them with his mouth, shifting his collar up and pressing a kiss there. He pulls away, taking a long look at Scott. He smiles and reaches for Scott’s fingers, bringing them up to his mouth and kissing each one. “Your fingers, your hands. Touching yourself only when I want them to, resting on the bed above your head when I want them to. They’re still, steady.” Stiles moves Scott’s arms carefully, setting them on the bed above Scott’s head, moving Scott’s wrists together and taking his hands away. “I want you to keep my hands and my arms right there for me,” he tells Scott, leaning over him and pressing a kiss on each of Scott’s wrists. “Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Scott says breathlessly. He knows by the time Stiles is done with… whatever exactly this is, his arms will be sore. He’ll feel it tomorrow, driving, and Stiles knows that. Stiles wants him to remember, the lingering ache reminding him of how he felt when Stiles smiled at him.

Stiles presses careful kisses along the exposed, inner skin of Scott’s arms, the hair on Stiles’ face brushing against the skin. Stiles traces his veins with his tongue. “These arms are mine, to hold and to hug. You can see when you use them to draw out other people’s pain, the black lines that show how _hard_ you try, how good you want to be. You’re always doing things to help other people. But right now, these arms are mine, and the only pain I want to take away is yours.”

He moves down, taking his time and touching every part of Scott with his hands and his mouth, gentle whispers of, “ _Mine_ ,” that draw Scott out of his head. Stiles spends ages licking and biting and soothing at Scott’s thighs. It gets Scott hard, and Scott wants nothing more than to reach down and touch himself, but he obediently keeps his hands above his head, out of the way for Stiles to give and take in equal measure. Stiles presses one quick kiss on the head of Scott’s cock, smearing precome on his lips, slowly licking off the taste.

“That’s mine, too, right now” Stiles tells Scott, eyes lidded and heavy with the way Scott is gone for him, responsive and eager and tethered to Stiles’ words. “Mine to hold, to touch. To suck.”

“ _Please_ ,” Scott gasps, and Stiles grounds Scott with his hand on his hip. “Not yet,” he says. “You’ll get to come, but not yet. I’m going to need you to turn over for me, Scott. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. His body feels at one with the bed, and he doesn’t really want to get up, but he trusts Stiles and does what he asks, carefully flipping and shifting back over to the center of the bed. Stiles rewards him by gently lifting his hips and sliding a pillow under them, rubbing his hands gently against the warm skin of Scott’s back when he’s done. “There we go,” Stiles says, resuming his pattern from before, only deviating once he reaches Scott’s ass.

“Have you ever been rimmed?” Stiles asks. The term rings unfamiliar in the fog of Scott’s head, so he shakes his head. He can’t see Stiles’ face, so Stiles reassures him with a gentle rub against his back that it’s okay. “You’re gonna love it,” he promises, parting Scott’s cheeks. “I’m going to get my mouth all over my pretty hole,” he says, letting one of his fingers rest against Scott’s rim. “Does that sound good to you?”

Scott groans. “God, yes,” he says.

“Good,” Stiles says, not wasting any time. He spends ages just getting the skin wet with his mouth, long, sloppy laps that make Scott’s head swim before he finally dives in, sucking at the skin around Scott’s hole and tracing after with his tongue, constant contact against the sensitive skin that makes Scott painfully aware of the way his cock is leaking, pressed between his body and the pillow. Stiles’ tongue dips inside, and Scott thinks he’s nearly done for, anchored only by the words in his head that Stiles presses into his skin, “ _not yet_ ” and “ _almost there_ ”.

When Stiles finally lets Scott come, his whole body feels like mush, heart pounding and breathing heavy, a collection of limbs aching and sore from the tension of holding himself back until Stiles was ready.

Stiles turns him over and kisses him, deep and excited, eyes brighter than Scott’s ever seen them. “You did _perfect_ ,” he blurts. “You were _incredible_ for me. Like, really fucking good, holy shit.” Scott glows with the praise, and Stiles only heaps it on more and more, easing the knot of nervous in Scott’s chest before it even has the chance to form.

By the time Stiles finally removes his collar for the night, Scott feels like an anvil has been lifted from him. He feels light and free and happy.

It’s the most incredible he’s felt in ages.

* * *

 

New Orleans is a bucket of cold water.

The drive there is fine, uneventful. Scott is getting tired of grabbing food on the road, but there’s not much they can do about that. They check into their place just fine, and there’s nothing wrong with the room.

He doesn’t realize the problem with going to New Orleans until he’s walking around.

The entire city so far has been an ache in his chest, frustration and loss bubbling up and making him feel sick. They’re sitting in Lucy’s Retired Surfer’s Bar and Restaurant, and he can’t stomach the Serious Nachos loaded with crawfish that Stiles is devouring, even though they look absolutely delicious. Scott can’t bring himself to voice it out loud, not with the tightness in his chest and the heaviness of his heart.

“Look, there’s a Jackson Square!” Stiles says, shoving his phone in Scott’s face to show a little green circle on the map. “It’s a park, we can drop by to see if there’s a sign on the gate or something. Apparently, it’s famous, anyway.”

“Sure,” Scott says, lifting a nacho by its edge and using it to poke and prod his food around. He can see the moment when things click in Stiles’ head that something is off.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, dude. I know we’ve seen a lot of parks-”

“It’s fine,” Scott says. “We can head that way once we finish up, it’s not far, right?”

Stiles eyes him, concerned, but doesn’t press, and once Stiles is finished and Scott has trudged his way through more nachos, they head out to explore the French Quarter. They’re surrounded by fleur de lis and buildings that are reminiscent of the photos Scott saw on Facebook from the summer after sophomore year, when Allison ran off to France with her dad. Every street sign has the French and English name on it.

It isn’t until they hear someone on the street next to them jabbering on the phone in French that it finally clicks for Stiles.

“ _Oh_ ,” Stiles says, his face the perfect picture of horror. “Oh god, I… really did not think this through, did I?”

“Neither of us did,” Scott says. Stiles told him the cities he’d looked into and Scott hadn’t questioned them at all. “I didn’t think about it before, but now…” Now she’s all he can think about. He can imagine that she’d love it here, her laugh high and bright, holding his hand as they walked through the streets. Her reading all the signs in French, Scott unable to tell if her pronunciation is actually as perfect as it sounds, because he just has years of Spanish, learned from his family like she learned French from hers.

“Fuck,” Stiles says. “We can change our reservation here, call the place in San Antonio and see if we can get a room early. We don’t have to-”

“No,” Scott says, shaking his head. He knows Stiles was excited about New Orleans, that he spent hours online deciding which nighttime haunted tours he wanted to go on, settling on the vampire tour of the city because he thought it’d be the most amusing, something he’s interested in enough that even the fact that parts of it are rooted in history and literature aren’t enough to deter him. “We’ll stay. Just… distract me.”

Stiles takes that directive as seriously as Stiles takes anything. He keeps Scott busy, running through side streets and immediately regretting it, meandering back to the main roads. Exploring everything with the word haunted they come across. Dragging Scott to every snowball stand they can find to try out all the unconventional flavors, Tiger’s Blood and Tweety Bird and Superman. Stiles orders them with double cream, getting the sweetened condensed milk all over his face and not giving any fucks, dragging Scott off to find somewhere secluded where Scott can kiss it from his lips and lick it from his face.

Scott survives New Orleans, but he walks away with his heart just a little bit heavier.

* * *

 

San Antonio is two hot days spent along the River Walk. Stiles leaves it up to Scott whether he wants to go see the Spanish missions there, and while Scott considers it, he ultimately decides not to. Stiles forgets his sunscreen the second day, so they spend their time ducking in and out of shops before realizing there’s only so many times they can look at the same thing without seeming suspicious. At the end of the day, Stiles is pink but not lobster red, which Scott considers an achievement, so they pick up a small bottle of aloe vera for Scott to rub into his skin.

The next morning they head to Phoenix. The air is so hot they don’t even bother trying to drive with the windows rolled down. Stiles keeps the air conditioning cranked on high. Texas goes on for ages; it’s the first time Scott really has any concept of a state that isn’t California being that big. The road stretches on for ages with few signs of life until El Paso. New Mexico is at least more interesting, crossing the continental divide and driving through mountains. Stiles lets Scott take that portion so he can gawk while he texts Malia.

They finally get to Phoenix, and Scott decides early on that, although it’s not horrible, it’s not somewhere he would want to live. Everything is hot, way hotter than he’s used to, as a Northern California kid. There are cacti. Everything is tan. Literally everything. But they’re also surrounded by mountains. It’s a disorienting mix, and Scott can’t quite wrap his head around it.

Stiles has a list for Phoenix, and they work their way through it, spending way too long at the zoo and eating up some of the time they planned to use to go to the Scottsdale Center for the Arts. The science center equally takes up way more time than Scott expected.

Scott knows he should be really into what’s there, but he finds himself struggling to focus on what’s going on around him. It’s finally starting to sink in that the trip is almost over, and it’s dragging Scott back down to reality. He doesn’t know what things are going to be like once they return to their everyday lives back in Beacon Hills.

He’s not worried about Kira and Malia; they’ve been talking throughout the trip, and Scott is relieved by the lack of weirdness and by the understanding that he and Kira have managed. He shares bits of what he and Stiles have been doing, though, for the most part, she’s okay with not knowing. She told him that if she knew, she would find herself trying to do that for him, too, when part of the point of this is that she and Stiles give Scott very different things.

He _is_ worried about him and Stiles. For all they’ve talked themselves in circles about what they’ve been doing in bed, they haven’t actually talked about what’s happening more broadly beyond saying loving each other. Scott doesn’t think they’re officially dating, since being official probably typically consists of deciding it out loud.

He wants to date Stiles. Kira would let him date Stiles, as long as things never shifted so he was constantly prioritizing Stiles and cutting her out of his life. He doesn’t know that Stiles really wants to date him, though. He doesn’t even know that Stiles will want to keep collaring him, once they’re no longer away from home, when everything goes back to normal. Scott’s heart aches even worse at the idea of losing that, just when he managed to use it to gain some sort of internal quiet.

Scott keeps waiting for openings to bring things up, but they don’t come easy for him. He delays and delays and pushes it off until it’s the night before they’re going home and the tension’s been building for days. Everything is urgent and desperate and needy and rushed, like they can cling to the feeling they had throughout the trip if they just try hard enough, grasping with nails and teeth and tongue. Stiles fucks into Scott hard on the motel bed, Scott writhing and moaning under him, and Stiles comes inside Scott, in the very last condom he packed.

They cling to each other in the silence afterwards, and Scott can’t hold it in any longer. “What’s going to happen when we’re back?” he asks, still catching his breath.

“What do you mean?”

“Please tell me you aren’t going to end this,” Scott says, unafraid to plead with Stiles. He worries that Stiles doesn’t understand how central this has become in such a short period, how much this affects him, will continue to affect him. He’ll never be able to look at Stiles’ lips without remembering how they felt around his cock, or to see Stiles’ hands without a vivid sense memory of the pouring rain and stalled jeep. The trip has changed him, and he can’t go back, not without it feeling like a real, palpable loss.

“Why would we end this?” Stiles asks, baffled. “Scott, were you thinking this was like… temporary or something?”

“I was hoping it wasn’t,” Scott admits. “I wasn’t sure what exactly it was. What it is.”

“A relationship,” Stiles says. “I… I thought you knew.”

“Not everyone’s you and Malia,” Scott reminds him gently. “Some of us need words to say what we are.”

“Well then here,” Stiles says. “Scott McCall, will you be my boyfriend?”

Scott wants to laugh at the way Stiles bats his eyelashes at him, but he doesn’t know how much more Stiles it could get. “Of course,” he says, kissing Stiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

 

The drive back they spend taking turns sleeping. Neither of them wanted to pass out the night before, energized by the glow of making things official. It’s a long drive, but that doesn’t intimidate either of them anymore.

When Stiles drives past the “Welcome to Beacon Hills!” sign, Scott feels a bit hollow. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, now that he’s back - he’d gotten so used to constantly moving that he thinks even he will be a bit antsy for the next week or two, until he adjusts back to eating real food and being able to take showers as long as he needs. He’s come back with a new perspective, and he looks forward to the future.

Most of all, though, he looks forward to sleeping in a real bed.

(preferably with Stiles in it, too)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
